


File it away.

by BarPurple



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Drugs, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Heavy Angst, Mycroft is NOT the Iceman, Physical hurt, Protective Mycroft, Young Mycroft, Young Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 23:33:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5645869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft slammed the phone back into its cradle and grabbed his car keys. Sherlock was in trouble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherlollymouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlollymouse/gifts), [theleftpill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleftpill/gifts).



> Based on this Tumblr post
> 
> http://theleftpill.tumblr.com/post/136640843477/whatever-you-do

Mycroft ran out of the door his car keys in hand not a thought to that fact it was raining and he’d not stopped for a coat. Sherlock had just called from a pay phone. Very little he had said made sense, but after repeated demands he got Sherlock to babble out the name of one of the local pubs. 

The Turk’s Head was a dive by anybody’s standards, the sort of place tolerated in an upper middle class village, because everyone needed somewhere to look down on, while secretly enjoying the illicit nature of the damn place. 

Mycroft started his car and prayed that Sherlock was just pissed, but he knew that the Turk’s offered inebriation in much worse forms than alcohol. The nagging phrase of ‘shot made me fly Mykie’ kept echoing in his head as he put his foot down and drove far too fast down the twisting country lanes.

The little car screamed to a halt outside the phone box. The receiver dangled from its metal wrapped cord, but there is no sign of Sherlock. Mycroft’s eyes darted left and right as he tried to work out which way Sherlock would have gone. He turned right and walked quickly along the street. The next four minutes were the longest of Mycroft’s life. He forced himself not to break into a run in case he missed a sign of his brother; he was in constant doubt that he should have turned left.

From the dark alley he heard the sound of someone being sick. He rushed into the dimly lit narrow space between the two runs of terraced houses and his heart stopped. Sherlock was slumped over a pile of bin bags face down in the pool of vomit he’d just spewed on to the cobbles.

“Sherlock!”

Mycroft never remembered how he got to his little brother’s side, but as he did he grabbed his shoulders and heaved him up right. Sherlock’s head rolled limply on his neck, but his lids fluttered open to reveal glazed, distant eyes. He gave Mycroft a sloppy grin.

“Hey bro. I’s flying.”

Mycroft’s urge to throttle him was quashed when Sherlock went limp in his grip. It took all Mycroft’s strength to lift the dead weight of his little brother clear of the bin bags at his feet. He slung his brother’s arms around his neck and hoisted him on to his back. It had been years since Mycroft had carried Sherlock like this. It pained him when he realised that Sherlock didn’t weigh much more than he had back then. He brother was always the lanky one, but this couldn’t be healthy, it wasn’t as if Mycroft had gotten much stronger. How had they drifted so far apart that he hadn’t seen this?

As he loaded Sherlock into the front seat and buckled the seatbelt around him he was hit by the thought that if he’d won the disagreement with their parents he wouldn’t have even been home when Sherlock called. He had wanted to stay in Cambridge for the holidays. The exam he needed to revise for faded into insignificance. Sherlock had come so close to being on his own this Christmas. Mummy and Father had decided to spend the festive season in Oklahoma, line dancing, or was it square dancing? Mycroft couldn’t remember and didn’t really care. All he could think about was the fact his own selfish need to succeed academically had almost left Sherlock alone face down in his own puke in an alley. 

He gripped the steering wheel till his knuckles cracked and turned white.


	2. Chapter 2

What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?

The question had become a meaningless chant in Mycroft’s head as he lugged Sherlock from the car and dragged him into the house. Sherlock was still insensible, but he’d at least regained enough awareness to get his feet under him and stagger along as Mycroft steered him upstairs.

By the time they had reached the landing Mycroft had a plan. He was going to get his brother cleaned up and then try to get some fluids into him. After that the plan sort of petered out, but at least he had a starting point.

Sherlock’s body suddenly went from loose too rigid in his grip. Mycroft had a split second of panic that his brother was having a fit before his arm was twisted up behind his back and he was slammed into the bedroom door frame. He face connected with the wood and a bloom of pain erupted across his left eye socket.

_Two days later – Cambridge_

_“Quite a shiner you’ve got there Mycroft. Does it have anything to do with your request for a leave of absence?”_

_Mycroft touched his fingers to the purple flesh of his left check and gave the Dean a small smile._

_“No sir. Sparring with my little brother over the holidays. His reach has improved since his last growth spurt.”_

_The Dean chuckled and nodded._

_“Very well Mr Holmes. Your leave of absence is granted. We expect to see you back soon and of course you will have to keep up with the course reading.”_

_“Thank you sir.”_

_“Keep your guard up next time you spar with your brother, eh?”_

_Mycroft gave the Dean a tight lipped smile and a short nod as he left the office. He didn’t relax until he was back in his car. He winced as he pulled the handbrake off. He wasn’t sure he fully convinced the Dean that all was well at home. Thank God he hadn’t seen the boot print bruises on his ribs._

_Mycroft put the car in gear and drove back home as fast as he could without drawing police attention. The guilt for leaving Sherlock alone while he took his exam squirmed in his chest the entire journey._


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was finally asleep when Mummy had called. Mycroft had no idea what time it was, or how long he’d been awake looking after Sherlock. He’d almost passed out with exhaustion as soon as he was sure Sherlock was sleeping and not just in another lull. He’d managed to make the right noises in response to Mummy’s stories holiday stories. A dozen times during the rather one sided conversation he’d almost blurted out that he needed them to come home, but he kept his promise to Sherlock.

During one of his more lucid moments Sherlock had asked Mycroft not to tell on him. Mycroft looked down at his brother’s trembling hands; hands he was holding in his own to prevent Sherlock clawing at the ants he said were crawling under his skin. His request was framed in such a childlike way; Mycroft gave his word without a thought.

“You always keep your promises Myc.”

Mycroft said goodbye to his parents and hung up the phone. With a slow sigh he trudged back to Sherlock’s room. He stood in the doorway watching his little brother sleep. He was in a third set of clean pyjamas and Mycroft had washed his face five, or was it six times, but his hair was a lank, tangled mess. As Mycroft crossed the room he picked Sherlock’s comb from the dresser. 

His little brother was ridiculously proud of his ebony curls, but their current state was appalling. Mycroft briefly reconsidered trying to help Sherlock have a shower. It had seemed an impossible undertaking when Sherlock was swinging between placid and raging. Maybe when he woke up they could tackle it. For now Mycroft perched on the edge of the bed and slowly began combing through the wretched mess of Sherlock’s hair.


	4. Chapter 4

Eight months later at Mycroft’s graduation his stomach lurched as he realised Sherlock was high again. In between finishing his exams and helping Sherlock detox in secret he thought they had become more like brothers again. It made him sick to think that Sherlock had broken every promise he had made and was using again.

Mummy’s face told him that she’d noticed something off about her youngest son’s behaviour. Sherlock was smiling a little too much and was constantly bouncing on the balls of his feet. Mycroft clenched his jaw and decided that he had to tell his parents what was going on. They had to know, he wasn’t going to be home as much once he started his new job. He didn’t let himself think of what would happen once Sherlock started university in the autumn.

Any hope Mycroft had of his parents being supportive and giving Sherlock the help he needed died during that awkward and heated conversation. They had accused him of exaggerating the problem; told him that just because he’d chosen to live like a monk that didn’t mean that Sherlock couldn’t have a little fun. Sherlock was sensible and intelligent, he wouldn’t let this control him, and he was just experiencing a little of life. 

It had taken control Mycroft didn’t know he had not to scream at his parents. He didn’t even slam the door as he left the house. Their parents could stick their heads in the sand and leave Sherlock to struggle with this on his own if they wanted to, but Mycroft would be there for his little brother.

A quiet voice in his mind asked who was going to be there for him. Mycroft pushed the thought away.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock’s first serious overdose happened at the start of the Christmas break during his first year at university. Mycroft had received a phone call at work that had him making hurried excuses and rushing from the office. Unfortunately this was a mere handful of days after his boss had had a called him into his office for a quick chat.

_Mycroft stood in front of Jenkins desk and waited while the man made a show of finishing the line he was writing. The attempt to remind Mycroft of his superior position was pathetic._

_“Ah Holmes. I need to have a word with you about your time keeping. You’ve needed to leave early a little too often recently.”_

_“Yes sir. An illness in the family is never easy to schedule.”_

_Jenkins odious face twisted into a fake smile of sympathy. Mycroft briefly entertained the idea of pounding the man’s head into his desk._

_“I understand, but you must remember this is a full time occupation and needs your undivided attention.”_

_Mycroft nodded blandly and chose not to point out the extra work he’d had to do to cover for Jenkins when his attention was focused on his mistress._

_“The matter is in hand. I assure you my time keeping will no longer be a problem.”_

A few months later Mycroft had almost laughed in Jenkins’s face when he told him that he wouldn’t be considered for the minor promotion because of his lack of dedication and reliability.  
Those words would never be applied to him again. During Sherlock’s time at university Mycroft mastered juggling work and a constantly relapsing addict little brother. He gain a reputation for being calculating and cold.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock’s final months at university had taken their toll on Mycroft physically and mentally. There had been some spectacular shouting matches, which always left Mycroft drained and numb. The verbal sparring wasn’t as bad as when things got physical. 

Whip thin as he was Sherlock was physical strong and considering the lack of care he showed his body by not eating or sleeping sensibly, he was very fit. A few weeks before Sherlock’s final Mycroft had found and flushed his stash. Sherlock had lashed out with such violence Mycroft didn’t recognized the animal attacking him as his little brother. 

The damage to Mycroft’s right knee caused by Sherlock trying to save his precious high from the sewers was healing, but the joint would never be the same again. He’d begun to carry a stick umbrella, which had the advantage of offering support when his knee twinged, but at least didn’t look like a cane, or crutch.

At Sherlock’s graduation ceremony Mycroft entertained a faint hope that they were over the worst and the troubled years were behind them. Not many hours later he had to admit to himself that he could no longer tell for sure if Sherlock was using. If he had still been able to see through Sherlock’s efforts to hide his habit, he wouldn’t be sitting here on this filthy mattress in a run down doss house watching his brother shudder and whimper his way through his high.

Mycroft plucked the grubby fold sheet of notepaper from Sherlock’s shaking hand. 

“Oh Sherlock.”

**Author's Note:**

> There's more points on the original post and there is more of this fic to come. Grab that box of tissues, this ain't going anywhere happy.


End file.
